Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (35 page)

Then
it struck me and it was obvious. The reporter who'd covered the ball would have
made notes, as most reporters didn't forget their notebooks, and I remembered
thinking at the time that the paper had been torn from a small, cheap, wired
jotting pad, much like we used at the
Bugle
.

Feeling
like a bloodhound finally picking up the trail, I understood why they bayed,
and might have yelled in triumph had I not been in church. Clenching my fists
and shaking them at the ceiling was as far as I let myself go. I was convinced
a reporter had jotted down the caption in the notebook and that whoever had
written the combination to Mr Roman's safe on the following leaf had access to
the notebook. Therefore, it was probable the reporter had been involved with
the break-in at Mr Roman's!

A
mischievous part of my brain reminded me that Phil was a reporter. However, I
knew his writing and was pretty sure he was in the clear. Therefore, I needed
to discover who had actually written the article. I ground my teeth because I
hadn't thought to look before.

I'd
have to return to the dentist's. 'Damn.' My mutter came out louder than
anticipated.

'I'll
trouble you to watch your language in the House of the Lord, young man.'

Glancing
up to apologise, I met the glare of the blue-haired woman.

'You,'
she said with a look of contempt, 'I might have known. I'm going to call the
police.'

'Oh
no you're not,' I said, suppressing my instinct to flee, standing up, looking
her right in the eye, 'I'm leaving now on important police business. Do not
interfere.' It must have been the way I said it, for she was speechless as I
strode from the church.

Heading
back to the dentist's, I picked up
Sorenchester Life
.

'Are
you here for an appointment?' asked the receptionist.

'No,
I've come for this.' I said, holding up the magazine. 'I need to borrow it.
I'll bring it back.'

Hurrying
into the street before she could protest, I turned to the article, which was only
accredited to NW. Looking in the index, I discovered that Witcherley
Publications, Editor R. Witcherley, Contributing Editor N. Witcherley, owned
the magazine and, since none of the other contributors had the initials NW,
concluded that Narcisa was the author. I couldn't help noticing the names of
other
Bugle
journalists, including Phil Waring and even Ingrid on the
list of writers. I'd never realised there was a connection between the
Bugle
and
Sorenchester Life
, much less been invited to write for it, and
resentment began to bubble until I forced myself to simmer down and consider.

'OK,'
I said, thinking out loud, 'she wrote it and then what? Did she give the
notebook to someone else?'

'I'm
sorry, I don't know,' said a little old guy in a flat cap and muffler, scuttling
away, as if I was the loony that sits next to you on the bus.

A
bizarre thought sprouted. Perhaps Editorsaurus Rex was behind the crimes. He
would certainly have access to Narcisa's notebook and could easily have hired
someone to carry out the dirty deeds. It was possible, of course, that Narcisa
was, herself, the master criminal, though I didn't think she looked the type.
Still, I could think of no sensible reasons why either of them would have done
it. Why would they need to steal? I knew they were wealthy enough to own a
holiday home abroad.

I
decided to approach the Editorsaurus. My next stop would be the
Bugle's
offices.

I'd
always suffered with butterflies in my stomach when entering Editorsaurus Rex's
presence. On the whole, this had been because I was trying to work out what I'd
done wrong. This time, I was pretty much going to accuse him or his wife of
stealing, or worse, and it felt like I'd got a flock of vultures flapping
around inside. Nevertheless, despite a brief, panicky dither on the stairs, I
was determined to give it my best shot.

Taking
a deep breath, I strode into the main office, looking like I meant business.
Ingrid turned away as I headed for Rex's den, which hurt more than my fist when
I thumped on his door in the style of Hobbes. There was no reply. I hesitated,
caught between knocking again and barging straight in.

'He's
not in.'

Though
she was still talking to me, there was no smile, just polite indifference.

'Rex
is away. Duncan's in charge.'

I
grimaced. So, Duncan was back already; he had stitched me up with Hobbes.

'But
I need to talk to Rex … umm … or Mrs Witcherley,' I said. 'It's important.'

'Then
you're out of luck. They're away together.'

My
plan had fallen at the first hurdle. 'I don't suppose you know where?'

She
shrugged. 'Romania, I suppose.'

'Romania?
Why Romania?' It seemed I couldn't get away from the place.

'It's
where she comes from, or at least, her family did. They've got a holiday home
in the mountains out there. Now, excuse me, I've work to do.' Spinning back to
her computer, she stabbed at the keys.

I
slouched away, no longer the hound hot on the trail, more like a whipped puppy.
Leaving the building, I stopped, uncertain what to do, the fires of enthusiasm
having been all but extinguished, shivering as the wind flung hard, stinging
nodules of snow into my face. For want of a better idea, I headed back to
Blackdog Street where, with luck I'd hear some good news and, if not, at least
I'd get a cup of tea.

I
opened the door of number 13, bracing myself when I saw Dregs lying there,
watching and waiting, but he greeted me with a single wag of his tail, a
mournful look in his eyes, almost as if it was bath time again. Mrs Goodfellow
was stirring a pot on the stove when I entered the kitchen and, whatever it was
smelt delicious, though I was never destined to taste it. She'd been shopping
and piles of groceries were heaped on nearly every surface.

'Any
news?' I asked, though her expression had already told me.

She
shook her head. 'I'm cooking his favourites for when he comes back. What about
you, dear? Have you found out anything?' Her voice shook, as if she'd been
crying, though there were no tears.

'Not
much.' I sat at the table in front of a huge, bloody leg of lamb in a dish. 'I
think my editor and his wife might know something, only they've gone to
Romania.'

She
sighed. 'Have they, dear? Well, I expect you'd like a cup of tea and a bit of
dinner?'

Glancing
at the clock, I nodded. It was nearly one.

Though
the cup of tea was up to standard, the bread in the cheese and pickle
sandwiches was, perhaps, a little dry. This wasn't a complaint, merely an
indication of her state of mind. I covered up my disappointment, eating to fill
the emptiness.

I
was still at the table, comfortably full and warm, when, my brain, unfreezing, started
working. If Hobbes had been onto something, perhaps that had led to his disappearance.
Perhaps he, too, had uncovered the link between Romania and the Witcherleys,
who, of course, employed Phil, who had some connection to Tony Derrick. It
struck me then that Hobbes's sketches might have been more than idle doodles.
The fact of his having drawn Tony and Narcisa together, and then sketching
Barrington-Oddy's attackers, sparked a possibility. I'd just assumed both
assailants were men, but could one have been a woman? The taller, skinny one,
whose face had been hidden by a scarf and a hat might have been. Another idea
nudged into my head: Hobbes had discovered fibres with the faint scent of
flowers. Could that have been Narcisa's perfume?

Then,
of course, Pete Moss had sold some of his foul Carpati cigarettes to a woman
who was organising a party, and had mentioned that she'd been with a ratty
bloke. It had to be Narcisa and Tony. Probably, anyway. I'd even heard her
party at the Blackdog Café and was willing to bet all the thumping music was to
cover the break-in at the museum. By then, I'd nearly convinced myself the
Witcherleys were up to their necks in crime, with Tony as their accomplice. A deluge
of congratulation and excitement bursting over me, left me gasping with
self-admiration, thinking I was really getting the hang of the detective game.

Unfortunately,
I couldn't see how my brilliance would help, especially now the Witcherleys
were in Romania and Phil and Hobbes were still missing. I discounted the idea
that Hobbes had gone after them – he wouldn't without telling Mrs Goodfellow.
It was then I realised his car had vanished as well. We'd left it outside
Tony's squalid squat and it hadn't been there when I'd gone back with Kev. Nor
had it been at the police station. Had he retrieved it and then gone missing?
Or had Tony stolen it? Or was there another explanation? Detecting wasn't so
easy after all.

Dregs
padded in, sitting gloomily on my foot, sighing, and I wondered whether my
initial idea had merit.

I
jumped up. 'Where's his lead? I'm going to see if he can find Hobbes.'

'Are
you, dear?' The old girl was attacking a vegetable with a cleaver. 'It's on the
hook by the back door. I hope you find him, because he'll be hungry and I ought
to tell you, dear, he can get rather wild when he's hungry. You'd best take the
leg of lamb. I'll wrap it for you.'

'But
it's not cook—' I began. 'Oh, yeah. Right.'

Wrapping
the bloody leg in a tea towel, she dropped it into a carrier bag. Though Dregs
watched, he'd been fed and was far too interested in the prospect of a walk to
spare a thought for raw meat. Besides, he preferred his meals nicely cooked.
Mindful of the cold, I donned my overcoat and trilby, and clipped him to the
chunky length of chain and led him out.

'Take
care, dear,' she said as I shut the door, 'and good luck.'

'Right
then, Dregs,' I said. 'Find Hobbes. Got it? Find Hobbes.'

He
looked at me and then bounded down the road with a woof. I struggled to hold
him back, pleased how well my experiment was working, until he came to an
abrupt halt by the nearest lamppost and gave vent to pent-up emotions, letting
off steam in the cold air. I'd not taken into account that he'd been inside all
morning. At last he finished and, after a rapturous bout of sniffing, set off
with an excited woof.

Though
I'd got him on a short chain and was hauling back with all my strength, I
struggled to keep up, my strides growing longer and longer, sure that, sooner
or later, I'd crash to the pavement, yet, amazingly, keeping going. My hat blew
off as we turned into Pound Street; I never saw it again. On reaching the main
Fenderton Road, Dregs had enough sense to keep away from the traffic because,
so far as I could see, the only way I could even slow him was by flinging
myself to the ground and acting as an anchor.

The
overcoat had been a mistake, for sweat was already trickling down my chest,
sticking the shirt to my back. I glimpsed my reflection in a car's tinted
window; my face was puffed out, as red as a robin's chest, my hair was sticking
up in damp clumps. When I managed to unbutton the coat, it flapped like heavy
wings. I wasn't used to such exercise, and the cheese sandwiches were making
sure I couldn't forget them.

I
kept going, though my head, in contrast to my leaden body, felt light and I
wondered when my lungs would give up the struggle. It was, surely, a race
between them and my heart as to which exploded first. I think the speed camera
on the outskirts of Fenderton flashed as we went by, although it might just
have been the lights in my head. My tongue lolled like the dog's, though he was
in his element, running with boundless enjoyment, apparently oblivious to the
dying man he was dragging behind.

When he made a sharp turn to the right, darting
across the road, I didn't. Inertia, plus both feet happening to be off the
ground, meant I carried straight on until the chain, jerking in my hand as it
twisted round a pole, snapped tight. The next thing I remember, I was sprawling
on my side on the pavement, gasping for breath like a landed fish, panicking
that my lungs had collapsed under the impact. Cars and lorries thundered past.
No one stopped to help.

Though
I guess I was just winded, it was ages before I could breathe normally, sit up and
audit my other injuries. My wrist was raw and tender where the lead had chafed,
my shoulder felt as if it had been wrenched from its socket, the side of my
face was bruised and bleeding, my hip was throbbing and sore, blood was
pounding through my head, and I hoped the stickiness inside my clothes was only
sweat. Nothing seemed too serious but the experience gave me an insight into
how Tony must have felt when Hobbes tackled him. Using the pole as support, I
climbed back to my feet. A sign on top thanked me for driving safely.

I
brushed myself down as well as I could, while my pulse and breathing dropped to
sustainable levels. The clip on the chain had snapped off and there was no sign
of Dregs, which was good, because I'd half-expected to see him flattened in the
middle of the busy road. I was furious, coming close to abandoning him, going
home, licking my wounds. Yet, worst luck, I recognised my responsibility for
the daft brute. Groaning and swearing, picking up the bag of lamb from the
gutter, I hobbled across the road into a quiet, tree-lined cul-de-sac that looked
familiar. It was Alexander Court, where Mr Roman had lived.